


What the Wind Blows In

by Wonderlandleighleigh



Series: Bits and Bats and Bobs [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Supernatural
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 19:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18350414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderlandleighleigh/pseuds/Wonderlandleighleigh
Summary: The Winchesters blow into Gotham.





	What the Wind Blows In

It’s a windy night in Gotham City, and it makes the sign outside the Pork and Pine in the Narrows swings with it. You can hear the creaking a mile away, and certainly, it’s ever-present inside the bar. 

Where Matches Malone receives somewhat of a hero’s welcome.

He’s a regular at these old, dusty dive bars in the worst parts of town. Since I arrived, I’ve had quite a few people come up and ask Matches how he’s managed to live this long. 

“You know me,” I say in Matches’ grizzled, deep voice. “Nothin’ but luck.” 

And I get a laugh out of it, but it feels strained somehow. These men are nervous, and not because their ol’ pal Matches isn’t who he says he is.

There’s unease in the air. Four staples of the guns for hire community have died in quick succession over the last month and a half, and not the usual way. No. This feels different. All four men were found mangled; half-eaten by something not native to Gotham’s streets. 

And that’s saying someone, all things considered. 

“You hear about Craig?” one man asks the group.

“Eaten,” another confirms. “Just like Harold. Just like Jonesy. Just like Jamal.” 

“Whadaya mean, ‘eaten’?” I ask, looking around at the other men.

One of the younger men walk over, his phone in hand, a photo of one of the victims on the screen. “We mean eaten.” 

I widen my eyes, looking at the photo. I’ve seen the original. I’ve seen the body up close at the morgue. 

Yeah. Eaten. 

“What the hell could do that?” I ask, looking around again. “Jesus. Whatever it is, we gotta kill that sunofabitch.” 

The other men agree with me, and I know that this is a bust. Nobody has any real idea what’s going on.

At least, that’s my initial belief. 

Until I hear a chuckle from the pool table. I turn, and observe two men, in the middle of a game.

They’re both tall, though one noticeably more so than the other. Dressed similarly, too. Plaid shirts. Jeans. Boots. Mid to late thirties.

There’s nothing especially unique about them.

Except that one of them chuckled. 

“What’s funny?” I grunt out, narrowing my eyes.

The taller one looks up, and gives an apologetic grin. “Nothin. I uh...I just tripped over the carpet is all. My brother laughed at me. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Fuckin’ tourists,” one of the guns for hire grumbles. “Should just kill ‘em.” 

“Not in my bar,” the old man serving drinks scolds. “You wan’ shoot ‘em, you take it outside.” 

“Aw, Pops!” 

“Nah, they ain’t worth it,” I say. “Pops, lemme buy a round for my boys, here!” 

The other men cheer, and I know that my night hasn’t been completely wasted, as I give one more glance to the men at the pool table, who are still playing, but clearly in deep conversation. 

They know something.

*****

Matches Malone leaves the bar before most of the other drinkers, and I get changed on the roof. Matches is a fine disguise, but the cape and cowl feel far less constricting (despite what certain acrobats with aversions to capes have to say).

I wait an hour, and the two men who were playing pool stumble out. 

“And don’t come back!” I hear Pops say. “Good fuh nuthin’ tourists.” 

The shorter man laughs softly. “Man, I miss gettin’ chucked outta bars. I feel like that hasn’t happened in ages!” 

“Yeah, it’s a real kick in the pants,” the taller man snorts. 

I drop down from the roof quietly, standing behind them in the shadows.

“Aw, c’mon, Sam. You’re the one who was feelin’ cooped up in the bunker.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t realize we’d be taking a job in frickin’ Gotham, Dean. You remember what dad used to say. You could stay here for the rest of your life, and you still wouldn’t gank all the ghosts and monsters in this town. It’s a black hole. To say nothing of the bat thing.” 

“So awesome,” Dean comments. “So cool. Maybe we’ll see him tonight.” 

“Doubt it,” Sam tells him. “Somehow I don’t think his nightly beat includes investigating possible crossroads deals.” 

“What’s a crossroads deal?” I ask. 

Both men jump and turn, guns raised. 

But not for long. A batarang to their hands takes care of them quickly, and they both yelp, stumbling back.

“Holy crap it’s Batman,” Dean blurts out. 

“And you’re in my city,” I tell them. “You know something about the deaths of those four men. You’re going to tell me.” 

Sam narrows his eyes. “What do you care about a bunch of guns for hire?” 

“Sam, don’t sass the Batman,” Dean scolds. 

“I don’t care if he’s the queen of England,” Sam snaps. “He’s way more interested in beating people up than helping them. Go back to defending the wealthy, Bats. We got this.” 

I stare at the two of them for a long moment. 

They’re not from around here. 

They only know what makes the national news.

“You’re going to answer my questions,” I tells them. “And then you’re going to leave my city.” 

“Or else what?” Sam asks simply. “We haven’t hurt anybody. We haven’t broken the law. What are you gonna do to us?” 

“You’ll have to excuse my brother,” Dean says. “He’s a little on edge. I think it’s the fact that the Joker got out of Arkham again. He hates clowns.” 

The look on Sam’s face is a healthy mix of rage and annoyance. “Dean.” 

“I’m Dean Winchester,” the older brother says. “This is my brother Sam. We uh...we hunt monsters. And demons.” 

“You’re hunters,” I say, looking them up and down, and feeling foolish for not spotting it sooner. 

Perfect.

Hunters. 

That always ends well. 

“We are,” Sam says. 

“Look, the four dead guys have all the hallmarks of a hellhound attack,” Dean says. “Which generally means one thing: they sold their eternal souls to a crossroads demon, and their deals came due.” Dean grins and leans down, picking the guns up from the pavement below, shoving his back into his pants and handing the other to Sam. “But like Sammy said, we got this. You probably got bigger fish to fry. Two-Face. Penguin. Poison Ivy.” He gives a low whistle. “Bet she’s a blast.” 

“She hurts people,” I respond. 

“But what a way to go,” Dean smirks. “Anyways. Seriously, I’m a big fan. It was great meeting you.” He gives my arm an awkward, friendly punch, before he starts leading Sam down the street. 

“And stop punching poor people!” Sam yells back as he follows. 

I watch them leave, and sigh heavily.

“Hunters.” 

*****

The Winchesters have a history. And that’s putting it lightly.

Theft, arson, murder. Assault. Grave desecration. 

And supposedly, they’re dead.

I sit at the computer in the cave, looking over their files. I’m no stranger to cheating death. But demons...they’re not in my usual routine, and I wonder if possibly calling Jason Blood might give me a leg up on this.

“Do not tangle with the Winchesters,” Blood warns me upon calling him. “They’re idiots, but they’re dangerous idiots, and they tend to make a mess of most everything they do. I can’t even count how many times they’ve accidentally almost ended the world.” 

“On purpose?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. 

“No, to save each others’ lives,” Blood responds. “They’re brothers, and they’re inseparable almost to the point of hilarity. If they’re hunting a crossroads demon, let them be. Once they’re done, they’ll leave on their own.” 

I get a second opinion. 

John Constantine laughs at me. 

“Sodding ‘ell, the Winchesters,” he muses. “Yeah, don’t...don’t get involved. They know what they’re doing. They don’t need your help.” 

“My help?” 

“Sam and Dean Winchester know just about everything there is to know about demons,” Constantine tells me. “Just let ‘em alone. They’ll do the job, and then go home.” 

“Hnn. That’s what Blood said.” 

“Oi, you called Blood before me? I’m terribly hurt, Bats. I really thought we had something special.” 

I hang up and sit back, weighing my options.

And make another call. 

“The Winchesters?” Zatanna asks after I explain the situation to her, and her voice goes up an octave. 

She knows them. And she’s definitely had a romantic entanglement with one of them.

“They’re in Gotham?” she asks, her voice still high. 

“Uh-huh,” I tell her. “They say they’re tracking a crossroads demon.” 

“Ugh,” Zatanna groans. “Crossroads demons are the worst. The businessmen of hell.” She sighs. “Look. Sam and Dean are....not Justice League approved by any stretch of the imagination, Bruce, but they’re good men. And they always try to do what’s right.” 

“Their arrest record tells a different story.” 

“So would yours if the police ever dragged your caped ass in on charges,” she snorts. “Let them work the case. Monitor it from afar. If it goes south, obviously step in, but-” 

“According to Jason Blood, it always goes south.” 

“Not...always,” Zatanna says hesitantly. “Sam and Dean know what they’re doing. Dean’s a little more on the 'shoot first ask questions after I’ve had a celebratory beer' type, but Sam’s there to keep things from going off the rails.” 

My lip twitches. Ah. “It’s Sam then.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I was wondering which brother you’d gotten close to. Now I know.” 

“...I hate you.” 

***** 

I track them outside of town, near Arkham, and watch from a nearby tree as they use rock salt to draw some sort of pentagram in the dirt of a crossroads. 

Sam buries a small tin in the center. I use the zoom in the lenses in my cowl and see...I’m not quite sure what. Bones of some sort. A driver’s license. 

It’s not long before a young man appears. Well-dressed, smiling, until he sees them. 

No smiles after that.

I brace myself for a fight, but I don’t get one. Instead, the brothers chant in Latin, while the man begs, and screams and eventually, a thick, black smoke expels from his mouth and eyes, and he drops as it disappears into the ground.

The man doesn’t move. 

“Ah, son of a bitch,” Dean growls, as his brother checks the body for a pulse. “Really thought we could save this one.” 

Sam rubs his eyes before unearthing the tin with his things in it. “Damn. Get the shovel.” 

“Yeah.” 

I watch. 

It’s a solemn business, and they bury the man silently, remorsefully, and when it’s done, they stand over the grave that no one would ever think is there, and bow their heads. I don’t know if they’re praying, or whether it’s just simply out of respect for the dead, but eventually, they pack their things, and drive away.

Zatanna is in the cave when I get back. 

“You leave it alone?” 

“Hnn.” 

“They get the job done?” 

“The man the demon was possessing died,” I tell her. “They exorcised it, and he dropped dead.” 

She nods sympathetically. “Yeah. That happens.” She sits on the edge of the computer, looking at me. “It’s not an exact science. There is no exact science. Demons ride human hosts hard, and when they leave…” 

“They leave a shell,” I finish. 

“Often,” Zatanna confirms. “But hey. You survived your first Winchester encounter. A lot of people don’t.” 

“So I’ve heard.” I tilt my head at her. “Are you going to go catch up with them?” 

She grins. “Eh. Another time. ”

Zatanna leaves not long after that, and I check in with my field operatives. They’re shutting down for the night as daylight approaches, and I spend the rest of my time logging the night’s activities, and looking up missing persons in the Gotham area who fit the description of the man that demon rode to his grave. I find a couple of leads.  
Soon, everyone starts to wander back to the cave. Alfred will make breakfast, and everyone but Duke will get some sleep.

The world will keep turning for one more day, and there will be one less demon luring people to their deaths.

For that, we can all be thankful.

END


End file.
